


Hot and Cold

by risotto



Category: Free!
Genre: Cameos, I'm Sorry, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Salon AU, Teasing, UST, Waxing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 17:42:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1356175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/risotto/pseuds/risotto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rin Matsuoka shaves, but soon learns waxing might be more up his alley.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hot and Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies in advance.

It all starts during one of Gou’s weekly visits.

“Oniichan,” she starts in that caramel-sweet voice she uses whenever she wants something and knows she probably won’t get it without some needling.

Rin should know better than to meet her gaze but he does it out of habit. Now he wants to punch himself for even doing so.

“I know I asked you before—”

“No.”

“—but I am just a few hours away from finishing my apprenticeship. And I need to build up more clientele—”

“I said no, Gou.”

“—and I was just thinking,” she continues, curling up on the couch beside him and batting her lashes, “how awesome it would be if I got a member of the Japanese swimming team as one of my clients.”

“It’s not going to work, Gou,” Rin says, returning to his magazine. Ooh, another Sengoku Musou video game’s coming out.

Undeterred, Gou sits on her calves, facing his profile. “I was also thinking how awesome it would be if said member was also the _best_ butterfly swimmer in Japan.”

Rin snorts.

“…but more importantly, I was thinking about how much I love _you_ more than anything in the world. And how much I’d appreciate it if you’d just come into the salon and let your dear, sweet, and favorite sister—”

“You’re my _only_ sister.”

“—do your hair.”

The words come soft but they hit hard. Things fall quiet, the only sounds threatening it are the washing machine and the rustle of glossy magazine paper as a page turns.

“Why can’t you ask Nitori?” Rin grumbles after a while. “He’s on the team too.” Technically. Miraculously.

“Because I already did and he, unlike you, agreed to it five times already. I can’t keep using the same people and doing the same things. It doesn’t count.” Gou nudges her forehead against the curve of his shoulder and whines. “Pleeeeease? It’s just a wash and trim and a conditioning treatment.”

“Sorry, I can’t be seen there. Besides, I cut my own hair.”

Gou’s face scrunches up angrily and for a split-second, Rin thinks he may have committed his worst act in his twenty-one years as a big brother. But just like that, her ire melts away.

Rin watches closely as Gou, calm as can be, marches across the room to retrieve her phone. “Who are you calling?” he asks, brow raising suspiciously.

Gou rolls her eyes, ignoring him, and dials some numbers. Her gaze locks with his and in that instant, Rin’s terrified.

Oh, no.

“Hello, Mikoshiba-san?”

Rin’s on his feet and at her side in record time. He swipes her phone away and presses ‘end’, before that red-headed idiot on the other end can even respond. “Alright alright, Gou, I’ll do it! You win. But you don’t play fair.”

Happily clapping and squealing and bouncing with joy, Gou hugs him and Rin doesn’t have it in him to shrug her off. “That’s why I always win.”

“Whatever. You better not do anything bad to my hair.”

“Oh, you won’t regret it!”

  


\--

  


A few days later, Rin starts to regret it.

He’s sitting underneath a dryer and wearing a butterfly-print smock with matching shower cap, the hair beneath it shellacked with some ‘deep-conditioning mask’ Gou claimed was from Morocco that does wonders for hair brittled by chlorine.

He takes a minor comfort in the fact that _Salon Free!_ is the sort of place that prides itself on being unique, even if it's way-the-fuck-out there with its staff and services and decor. All in the name of beauty, or so the tagline says. It's hip and upscale but it avoids sticking its metaphorical head up its ass by accepting one and all.

Which means he doesn't get any weird looks, nor is he asked any stupid questions.

The occasional yelps that come from the little closed off rooms in the back are a little disconcerting, though. No one, not Gou, or her friend the receptionist, or the short blonde stylist with the Roman nose pay any of it any mind.

Later, when Gou's using her foot to pump the hydraulic chair at her station like a madwoman, Rin sees someone coming out of the back room: a big, buff man with a blond buzz cut and a grin wider than the moon.

Just moments prior, he'd been yelping like a puppy. What the hell?

“Gou,” he whispers.

Gou lets out a pleased sigh once her brother's chair sinks to a desirable level for her to work with. “Okay, now, where are my shears—hm?”

Deciding it's best to not distract his sister when she's holding something sharp so close to his head, he grumbles a “nevermind,” and quietly returns to his salon-issued tabloid.

Not long after, he glances up to see a non-descript woman skipping happily towards the same back room as the steroid-junkie from before, a giddy look on her face. Minutes later, she's letting out a squealing cry. No one in the salon but Rin himself seems to notice it.

Are they running some kind of secret bondage dungeon back there or what?

Maybe, he thinks, it's just one of those things that are the norm in art-school-vomit places like this.

He can't say he's not curious about it, though.

  


\--

  


Gou's work on his hair is painstaking and slow and she constantly has to gain her superiors' approval before moving onto the next step in the process. In the end, she's managed to not make him go bald so the following week, Rin lets her layer and trim his hair.

The time goes by marginally faster and between Gou's breaks to check with the senior stylists, Rin alleviates his boredom by counting the number of people going in and out of the room he has silently dubbed, “The Torture Room.”

Four women and one man, plus one other he missed because Gou kept swiveling his chair around. They all leave looking satisfied.

Huh.

“Oniichan!”

Huh? “What?” He shoots Gou a slight glare at her reflection in the large mirror for making him jump.

As always, she's unbothered and removes the gaudy smock from around him, dusting away stray hairs and lint from his shoulders with a brush like a true professional. “I said I'm done. I have to go get evaluated. Sign out with Hana-chan and wait for me up front, okay?”

And just like that, she's whisked off into the manager's office, leaving Rin in the front lobby with only Chigusa the receptionist to keep him company. Luckily, the phone lines—about three of them—ring off the hook so he's spared small talk.

“Matsuoka?”

Rin's head snaps up and he looks into a pair of familiar golden eyes. And fumes. “Mikoshiba? What the fuck—what are you doing here?”

“Well...” Seijuurou Mikoshiba's face is as red as his hair and that just makes Rin want to break all sorts of things. Mostly his former captain's face.

With the phones finally quiet, Chigusa uses that exact moment to intervene. “Good afternoon, Mikoshiba-san. Please sign in. Tachibana-san is ready and waiting for you in the back room, whenever you're ready.”

Wait, what? The back room? The Torture Room?

Mikoshiba cackles and signs his life away. “I'd love to stay and chat but I can't keep Tachibana waiting,” he winks and walks off with a wave. “See you.”

It only occurs to Rin that Seijuurou's _not_ there to see Gou long after the other swimmer's gone into the Torture Room.

Okay, now Rin's been kept in the dark for far too long.

Not caring how rude or imposing it might look, he leans over the front desk. “The hell is Fire Crotch doing here?”

Chigusa looks up from the appointment book, not in the least bit annoyed at having her work interrupted. “Who? Mikoshiba-san? He comes here all the time.”

Rin snorts. “Seems too uppity for his tastes, no? And pointless. His shitty hair doesn't seem to change.”

Chigusa blushes a little, but after checking over both her shoulders, she looks back at Rin directly and whispers, conspiratorially, “It's for waxing.”

“Hah?”

“You know...?” Using a blank sheet of paper, she demonstrates the fine art of 'waxing' but all Rin can do is blink in shock.

“You're kidding,” he croaks. “ _Him_?”

“Hey, don't knock it till you've tried it! We've got some of the best estheticians in town.” The shrill ring of the phone cuts through their conversation. “Excuse me,” she clears her throat, smiles and perks herself before answering: “Thank you for calling Salon Free! The salon where you're free to be beautiful! This is Chigusa, how can I help you?”

Left to his thoughts, Rin considers things. He'd be a liar if he said he wasn't the least bit interested in seeing in what was back there in that room, and now that Mikoshiba came into play, his curiosity only intensified.

What the hell. Why not? If need be, Rin can spend the next day alone in his apartment regretting his life decisions with no one else the wiser.

Once Chigusa hangs up, Rin jumps right back in. “So this waxing... Can you put me in?”

Chigusa looks impressed. “Sure. A week from today? I'll put you with one of our best.”

“Fine, whatever. Just don't tell anyone.”

“My lips are sealed.”

  


\--

 

Later that night, while Rin is preparing to turn in for a busy day of drills and weight-training, he gets a text message from Gou.

_OMG oniichan ur gonna get waxed!? :O Ur so brave! Pro-tip take an ibuprofen like 1 hour b4 ur appt, ok? :)_

That damn Chigusa... He should have known. Frowning, he types up a swift reply.

_Pro-tip: make new friends._

  


\--

  


Despite that one flub, Chigusa was kind enough to schedule Rin for an appointment on the slowest day of the work week, when he had nothing of importance the following day (thus allowing the chance to retreat to his apartment if things went wrong) and, more importantly, when Gou wasn't working. Rin's not sure what to expect, but he did make sure to take the ibuprofen, just as Gou suggested.

Chigusa's at the front desk looking fretful when Rin enters.

Uh oh. That's never a good sign.

“I'm so sorry, Matsuoka-san,” she nearly sobs, “I booked you for Annie, but I didn't see that she was doing foils right before you. And they're ombre so...”

She's saying all of these things as if Rin knows what any of it means. He doesn't. All he sees is the short blonde stylist with the prominent nose meticulously sectioning and painting her client's hair. Then folding the sections into tin foil squares.

What the fuck.

Rin is about to leave and kiss _Salon Free!_ good-bye forever when a voice comes out from somewhere behind the stylists and the front desk.

The Torture Room.

“I can take him.” It's a young man's voice.

Chigusa looks like she's hearing a choir of angels instead. “Are you sure?”

“Sure. I have nothing else right now. I'll take him, if he doesn't mind.”

Rin swallows thickly and decides he also doesn't mind. If Mikoshiba can do it, then so can he. With that said and with his heart pounding, Rin walks into the Torture Room for the first time.

Like a lamb led to the slaughter.

Inside, the AC is on and the room is well-ventilated and to blame for the goosebumps rising all over Rin's flesh.

At first glance, the Torture Room looks like a doctor's exam room. It's very sterile and clean-looking, with a large exam bed in the center of it all. Products and little tools line the counters and shelves. Little touches like a plant and some pictures and posters make everything look more inviting and homey.

The esthetician, Tachibana is laying a fresh new sheet on the bed when Rin enters. He stands up right and approaches Rin, hand held out, a smile brighter than the sun lighting up his face.

“Hello and welcome. It's very nice to meet you. You must be Gou-chan's brother. Rin, right?”

Tachibana—or Makoto, as his nametag reads, in the salon's distinctive purple font—is tall but not imposing, and wearing a crisp white lab coat.

Coincidentally, he's also fucking gorgeous.

Dumbly, Rin shakes his hand and he thinks he might've said 'hello' or something but he can't feel his tongue.

“Sorry for the mix-up out there. Chigusa's very careful, but even she couldn't predict just how thorough Annie can be.” Makoto sighs and clasps his hands in front of him, patiently. They're huge, Rin notices.

“Anyway,” Makoto smiles, his head tilting fondly. Invitingly. “What are we doing today?”

“Um. A wax?” Rin winces a second later. For once, he actually didn't _want_ to sound like a sarcastic prick.

Makoto chuckles it off and Rin's starting to slowly realize the whole angel choir thing from before. “Walked right into that one, didn't I?” He shakes his head. “I mean, what would you like waxed?”

He doesn't know—he didn't think about it. Is there a menu? What the hell. Why did he agree to this?

Fucking curiosity.

Makoto seems to sense his trouble and gestures to a large poster on one of the walls. “Ah, we have a menu of services...”

_Oh my god._

“...but we can wax anywhere there's hair,” he says in that promising and soft voice.

For some reason, Rin blushes and his mind fumbles first, then takes off like a bolt of lightning into the gutter. “Anywhere?”

“Anywhere.”

It's suddenly hot in the room. “How about...just, I don't know, my arms?” It's safe and he always thought he had nice arms. Not very often he gets to show them off outside of the pool.

“Sure. Let me get prepared here. Please, take off your jacket and lay down and relax.”

Rin does only half of what he's told. Relaxing is hard to do when someone who looks like he ought to be swimming instead is working and getting his tools out and ready like he's some kind of doctor about to do surgery.

“You don't have a lot of hair.”

There's a slight tone of suspicion in his voice that makes Rin more guilty than defensive. “I shave, so...”

“Oh.” Makoto runs his fingers gingerly across Rin's forearm. They're warm and covered in talcum powder. “That makes sense, then. A lot of swimmers shave.”

Should he? “Is that a bad thing?”

“No, not at all. Waxing is not for everyone and it's not very time-effective but the results are smoother skin and it lasts for a long time, which is good if you tend to need to shave all the time because the hair grows back thinner.”

Makoto turns to a white warmer on the nearby table, dips a wooden stick in there and continues, “When you shave, you're cutting the hair off bluntly, instead of a tapered angle, so the hair is forced to grow back and looks thicker and darker. That's why there's ingrowns—oh, I'm sorry, I'm rambling.”

Rin shrugs. “I didn't notice.” Not only was Makoto's lesson informative, it gave Rin an excuse to blatantly stare at his mouth as he spoke.

The wax in the pot is lime-green in color. It looks more like a melted sauce than actual wax. It’s warm when Makoto evenly spreads a dollop of it against Rin’s forearm. There's some hair there, mostly stubble and regrowth his cheap disposable razor missed.

A white strip of fabric is placed over it and Makoto's fingers pushes it down, evening it out.

Rin winces in anticipation just moments prior to Makoto yanking the strip off.

For all of a second, it’s as if every nerve in Rin's body has gone numb, save for the patch of skin where the wax once lay. Makoto’s hand comes over it afterward, soothingly, like a cold compress.

Rin’s toes curl. Isn’t this supposed to be painful?

The only thing smoother than Makoto’s hands is his voice. “How does it feel?”

 _Incredible_ , the word lingers on the tip of Rin’s tongue.

Within moments, he realizes the first rip wasn't a fluke. Makoto's touch is practiced and gentle all over. It's the perfect bridge between the hot wax and soothing cold.

After rubbing in some oil—sweet almond oil, Makoto explains—and quickly cleaning up the mess and removing the sheet, they're done, and Rin's staring at his own arms like they're brand new. Not one ingrown or nick or stray hair in sight. He'll be slicing through water like it's nothing.

“They should be pretty smooth for about two weeks or so. Just make sure to exfoliate.” Makoto looks up into Rin's eyes. “Did you want me to schedule you then?”

Makoto has a thick appointment book with lots of cross-outs and scribblings and sticky notes and tabs. And names. Tons and tons of names and numbers.

“Oh, I don't know, I'm pretty busy... Can't say what I'll be doing that far ahead.” Rin stretches his arms languorously and “casually” over his head and frowns when he catches Makoto looking at his book instead.

“Oh. That's too bad. I'm filling up fast.” Makoto flips several pages. More names and numbers. Holy shit. Just how many people want their hair ripped off around here? “But I can pencil you in, anytime you want.”

Rin zips his jacket up all the way, covering up the redness creeping up his neck. “Um. I'll...think about it.”

“All right. Here,” Makoto hands him a business card. “Please come by again.”

  


\--

 

It's exactly sixteen days later while Rin is in his bathroom, fresh out of the shower with a single-blade razor and some shaving foam when he sees that even in the steam and foggy mirror, his arms are mostly still clear.

He thinks about Makoto's offer to see him any time he wants and wonders if that's only something he does for first-time customers or if it's just him being nice. It can go either way.

Curiosity gets the better of him again, and Rin ends up hunting for his windbreaker. He finds it in his hamper—thankfully, he didn't throw it in the wash—with the business card Makoto gave him still intact inside. The card is pretty standard, with the salon's contact information in purple print and, of course, a butterfly motif.

There's something handwritten on the back and Rin curses himself for not having noticed it the first time.

Makoto was being coy. It's his personal cell number.

Makoto answers on the third ring. Rin can hear the faint thump of lite music in the background. He's at the salon. “Hello?”

“Hi,” Rin says, his voice cracking.

“Hi, who is this?” Even when he thinks he's talking to a complete stranger, Makoto sounds cheery and polite.

It doesn't stop the self-consciousness from flooding Rin like he's some awkward schoolboy, nor does it keep him from banging his forehead against the wooden frame of the bathroom door. “It's...Rin. You probably don't remember me. I was by your salon two weeks ago—”

“Oh, yes, of course!” And he says 'of course' like he's singing it. “Gou-chan's brother! How are your arms?”

Wow. “Uh, they're...fine. Listen,” Rin clears his throat, “I wanted to see if maybe you can do me elsewhere.”

“...do you?”

There's too long of a pause and Rin's left wondering how the weather is like in Siberia this time of year because all he wants to do now is just leave this place and never return. “I mean...wax me,” he stammers. His mouth opens to tack on a 'nevermind' the next instant.

Makoto beats him to the punch. “Are you free now?”

“Huh?” How eloquent. Rin clunks his forehead again. “I mean, what?”

“If you can come down here within the next hour, I can take you.”

“...take me?”

Makoto laughs. Rin smiles.

“I just had a last minute cancel, so the slot is free,” he hums, and his voice goes softer: “And then it's my lunch hour, so I can see you, if you'd like...”

Rin can barely contain his own excitement. At once, he's at his door, slipping on his shoes and jacket. “I'll be down in like fifteen to twenty.”

 

\--  


He gets there in exactly nine minutes.

Rin's thankful the salon is busy, so no one is left whispering to the next person about why Rin Matsuoka is in the salon when his little sister isn't.

Chigusa is there, sweeping up clipped locks of hair from beneath a chair. When he passes by, she looks at him like he's grown two heads. Rin pretends to not see her at all, though he fully expects a flurry of texts from his sister to come within the next hour or so.

Once he's in the Torture Room, that doesn't matter. The pot of wax is on and its sweet vapors tickle his nose. The strips have already been pre-cut and set out on the tray beside the table.

Makoto's ready for him.

“Hi, Rin,” he says like they've been friends since kindergarten or something. He's standing by one of the shelves, reaching one long arm to the very top for the powder, and Rin can't help but notice how broad his back really is, made more apparent by the thinness of his t-shirt and the hypnotic movements of his trapezius. “Sorry, the air conditioner has been on the fritz today.”

That might explain why it's suddenly so warm. Yeah.

Mouth dry, Rin swallows and looks away. “Yeah, no problem,” he attempts a casual mien. It kind of works.

Stepping away from the shelf, Makoto smiles warmly and motions to the table where a fresh sheet has been placed. “Please, get comfy and relax. What are we doing today?”

The sleeves of his jacket aren't even past his elbows when Rin suddenly blurts, “My happy trail is looking a little sad.”

Why the fuck did he just say that.

It's not a soft and restrained chuckle that Makoto lets out—it's an honest laugh, the kind that comes straight from his belly, that makes those broad shoulders of his shake as he doubles over and muffles the rest of his laughter with his palm while tears threaten to stream from eyes he can barely keep open.

Pride and relief swell within Rin. So maybe this won't be a disaster, after all.

“Sorry,” Makoto says, clearing his throat and attempting to recover. The amused quirk of his lips betray him. “I didn't mean to laugh like that. Let me see your arms.”

As Makoto checks his handiwork from a fortnight prior, Rin says, “I think I want my legs waxed, too.”

“Full or half?”

Shit. The hell did that even mean? Rin shrugs, “Full, I guess.” His legs are prickly, especially around the calves, and he figures if he's going to be there for an hour or so, Makoto may as well get his time and money's worth.

“Okay, then I'm going to need you to take off your pants.”

Kissing what little confidence his corny joke from before earned him good-bye, Rin shucks his track pants down and kicks them off his feet. A good thing he decided to not go commando today.

Or maybe not. The way Makoto's eyes linger on his thighs is longer than necessary...

Nothing's said. Makoto quietly and immediately starts to work, rubbing the talcum powder over Rin’s legs, his hands swift and gentle, and Rin tries not to think about how perfectly they curve over his thighs. He glances over to the menu of services poster on the wall, hoping for a distraction.

“What’s a French and a Brazilian?” he asks, with semi-interest.

It’s the first time he’s ever seen Makoto look flustered. “Ah, well… Those are just different styles of removing the hair,” he says quickly, “from the pubic region.”

Rin’s heard of the practice, mostly on television overseas—never knew the name or exactly what it was, though. He shaves down there himself, sometimes. It helps when he's forced to practice in a dragsuit. Regrowth issues aside, it’s not that bad to just shave. Why would anyone want hot wax poured _there_ ?

Then he remembers the warmth of the wax dribbling over fresh skin; the tingly rush of feeling, the cool smoothness afterward.

Makoto laughs at something. Probably his distant expression. “It’s weird, I know, but a lot of people request it. For different reasons.”

“Yeah? Even men?”

Makoto nods and shrugs a little, spreading a thin film of the wax over the flattest part of Rin’s left calf. “They do it for a lot of reasons. They like the way it feels, or their partner likes it…”

He smooths down one of the strips and presses his fingertips firmly against the surface. The sound it makes when he pulls the strip off, taking the entire row of tiny hairs with it, is more unpleasant than it feels. “In some cases, their jobs even require it.”

Rin blinks, unflinching. “Their jobs?”

Pausing, Makoto looks to him, their eyes meet and Rin can swear he just winked. “Actors.”

He says ‘actors’ in a low whisper and he doesn’t have to say any more. The thought of some buff porn star—like that blonde guy the other day—coming in to get his balls waxed is weird and almost funny.

But picturing one of them splayed out on the exam bed, with Makoto leaning over his body, his broad back flexed with concentration isn’t so funny. And neither is the image of Makoto lifting one of his client's legs and pushing his knees apart to get at a better angle…

Rin squeezes his thighs tightly together and Makoto retracts his hand, thinking he may have hurt him. “Are you all right?” he asks.

“Y-Yeah. Sorry,” Rin mumbles beneath his hands.

Makoto finishes both his legs without incident then massages in the sweet almond oil and the skin, soft pink from exposure, glistens in the room's light.

Rin's favorite part has yet to come. It's strange to think of it as his favorite, considering he's never waxed anything besides his arms and, now, his legs. But the way his body trembles with anticipation at the mere thought of his lower stomach being touched must account for something, right?

Without waiting for instruction, he lifts his shirt and rolls down the waistband of his boxer-briefs.

“Eager, are we?” Makoto smirks.

“Hush,” Rin grunts.

He doesn't like the small strip of hair from his belly button that leads down into the region hidden by his underwear. His skin is too light and the hair there is too dark and too thick for his liking. It'd look better on someone who can tan.

Someone like Makoto.

But if the pressure that quickly builds and fades with every press and lift of Makoto's hand against him there is anything to go by, then Rin would gladly let the hair there grow untamed.

Regrettably, Rin doesn't have much for Makoto to work with, so the process is quick—just two go-throughs.

When all is said and done and clean, Rin dresses himself, wishing his skin would stop flushing so damn much.

There’s _something_ about waxing—he’s not even sure what it is or if it has anything to do with the act itself or the one performing it instead. All Rin knows is that he likes it far more than he probably should.

Makoto schedules him for his arms the following week without being prompted to.

Rin doesn't mind at all. He looks forward to it.

  


\--

  


Nothing out of the ordinary comes out of his next experience in the Torture Room. The extraordinary part comes after, when Makoto's hanging his pristine lab coat on the back of his door and casually invites Rin to lunch.

“You mean to eat...?” Rin's fumbling and he knows he can't ever hope to recover without looking like a complete cornball. But he tries anyway, because fuck all.

Makoto chuckles that sweet chuckle of his. “Of course, to eat,” he muses, “unless you'd rather do something else?”

 _It's a trap_ , Rin panics, _it's a fucking trap, don't fall for it Matsuoka_.

So he doesn't, instead he swerves around that landmine of an invitation and brushes past Makoto, head held high. “Whatever, you're paying.”

They go for yakiniku.

There, they graze on food and chat, mostly about anything that comes to mind. Rin’s swimming. Gou’s progress at the salon. Eventually the conversation segues into the topic of one Seijuurou Mikoshiba, who is also on the National Swimming Team with Rin.

“Oh, you know Seijuurou-san? He’s one of my regulars!”

Rin looks at him like he’s just revealed he's the last prince of Jupiter. Makoto laughs. “Don’t act so surprised. I told you, a lot of people do it for their job. Athletes included. Swimmers, especially.”

Rin flushes and pretends to look interested in the tiny grill in the middle of their table. Point there. “Yeah, but him?” he mumbles. “I don’t get it.”

“What’s wrong with Seijuurou-san? He’s one of my favorites.”

Favorites. Something in Rin surges. He keeps his cool, somehow, and reminds himself it's not Makoto's fault, whatever it is. “Um, everything? I’m on the same team with him and we went to high school together—and I can tell you with the utmost confidence that he's a choad.”

The smile never leaves Makoto’s face, even as he props his cheek on his palm and leans in, a knowing smile on his face. “O~r, is it because he’s trying to court Gou-chan?”

Rin snorts. “Is it that obvious?”

Makoto hums a small laugh. “Only a little bit. I’m a big brother too, so I can’t say I blame you for being on the lookout for her, but Seijuurou-san is not as bad as you think. They're not dating and Gou-chan seems to be having fun. She’s the one who convinced him to do the waxing, you know.”

“…you’re kidding.” Rin’s eyes are wide and wild and he’s on the verge of storming out and going to kill his former captain.

“Ah, I said too much…”

Oh no, he’s not getting away that easy. “Spill it,” Rin demands.

Makoto winces guiltily and Rin revels in the small victory. “Please don’t tell anyone?”

“I promise.”

“You swear on your kalbi beef?”

Why is he so disarming and cute? Anyway, Rin rolls his eyes, fights back his grin. “I swear, I swear,” he sighs.

“Swear on the kimchi, too.”

His face almost breaks out into a full-blown smile at that point. “Dammit, Makoto!”

Makoto laughs and dodges the straw wrapper thrown his way. “Okay, okay,” he settles down in his laughter. “He’d been coming by _Free!_ for so long, getting trims and scalp treatments, which seemed expensive and unnecessary, until it was obvious he was just there to get Gou’s attention. One day, she and Chigusa were discussing manscaping. And he overheard, so…”

“So now he gets his legs and arms waxed?” Rin’s disappointed, to say the least. He thought it’d be funnier or at least more scandalous. So much for blackmail material.

Makoto ducks his head and whispers, “Not just his legs and arms.”

“Oh?” Rin sits up straighter in his chair. “What else?”

“Everything,” Makoto buries his face in his palms.

“Everything?”

“Yes, everything.”

“Really?”

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.”

Why does everyone keep saying that?

“So then…you’ve done it too?” Rin’s throat has gone dry. Beneath the table, his hand has found its way up the hem of his shirt to his navel and his fingers graze the sleek skin there. He gulps, shivering, and tries not to let his thoughts stray.

Makoto shrinks in his chair. “How else am I going to learn?”

Against his better judgment, Rin grins. “Do you still do it?”

“I’m not continuing this conversation.”

 

\--

 

Despite the awkwardness of their first lunch together, they have several more weekly waxing sessions, each followed by an all too short lunch break. Until they both realize it’s just better to book Rin as his last client of the day so that time isn’t looming over them like a disapproving chaperone.

The meals together are fun. Makoto shares a few horror stories while leaving out names, tells him about his first experience with threading and how he got into this line of work—he used to model for a short time and was introduced to it while in Europe.

Rin wonders what else he learned while in Europe.

Then he wonders why he even cares in the first place.

Aside from the obvious, that is. Rin likes Makoto. A fair enough conclusion, considering Makoto's insanely attractive, and would probably make twice as much money his clients rake in if he switched careers with any of them.

But he’s also kind (maybe _too_ kind—he is rather close with Mikoshiba after all), deceptively funny, and very attentive and considerate. It’s not long before Rin is looking forward to the sessions.

And that’s when Rin realizes just how sick and sad of an individual he must be when the person he trusts the most is also the one who slathers hot wax onto his body along with a muslin strip and pulls in the opposite direction of hair growth.

One late night, while in bed, when his hand sneaks beneath the covers to curl around himself as his thoughts drift then linger on what his body wants—brown, cowlicked hair, and deep green eyes and hot wax poured everywhere—Rin gets the strangest idea.

Why didn't he think of it sooner?

  


\--

 

_oniichan, did u take my brand-new loofah off the counter??_

 

\--

  


“At this rate, you might as well just get electrolysis,” Makoto quips over the phone when Rin calls him the next night for a booking. “If you even have any hair left, that is.”

Rin can't even counter with his usual dismissal—he's practically on the edge of his seat, bubbling up with anxiety.

“So,” he hears Makoto tapping his pen on his book, “how about tomorrow, for the usual? It's been long enough.”

The usual being his arms, legs, and happy trail. Rin has other plans, though. It's why he's cleaned and exfoliated himself raw in preparation. “I was thinking maybe something else,” he says, and he's surprised at how calm he sounds.

“Oh? Like what? Your eyebrows?”

And look like Mikoshiba? Pfft, _no_.

“A Brazilian.”

The line goes so quiet on the other end, Rin thinks Makoto's hung up. Then there's a soft breath and he so desperately wishes he can see the look on Makoto's face. Is it the look of a man scandalized? Or is the look dark and beckoning and...maybe it's a good thing he can't see him right now.

“Oh, yes,” Makoto says after a while. “We can do that. But are you sure?”

“I am. I want to see what it's all about.”

There's another long silence. “All right. Then... You'll need to be ready for it.”

“I will be.”

  


\--

  


Rin's not ready for it. The realization hits him when he clambers into the Torture Room the next day, barely a minute shy of his appointment time, feet heavier than lead.

Maybe it's been a while and he hasn't readjusted, or maybe it's just his nervous imagination going out of whack, but the light in the Torture Room seems dimmer and the air seems warmer and thicker. Not significant, really, just enough for Rin to notice as soon as he enters.

Makoto's inside adjusting the exam bed, reclining it as far back as it can go. And of course he's discarded his lab coat. Shit. “Ready?”

“Let's just get this over with.”

Rin moves to take off his pants but Makoto stops him, one hand firm on the wrist working the drawstring ties. “Allow me.”

Rin gulps, watching as Makoto slowly undoes the knot in the ties, his gaze never leaving Rin's. Then the taller man crouches, his face mere inches away from his Rin's groin as he pulls the pants down past his knees and off his ankles. He's doing this on purpose, anyone can see that. Why, however, is anyone's guess.

Almost immediately, Rin feels an erection coming on.

Makoto takes Rin's boxers along with the pants and, fuck, Rin springs out and he thinks maybe he ought to do or say something. An impossible feat, when Makoto—specifically, Makoto's _mouth_ is mere inches from the tip of his cock. He doesn't even need to lean in to reach it. He can just dart his pink tongue out, not all the way, and let it go flat and sweep up the underside...

Then Makoto stands and, just like that, he's back to his professional, clinical self and wordlessly gesturing to the exam bed.

Feeling suddenly deprived, Rin groans, a touch too loud. What the fuck was that?

Makoto snaps some gloves on. They're the latex kind, tight and thin, like a second skin over his hands. Rin hardly feels the material when they coast over him as Makoto wipes a sterilizing cloth on him— _everywhere_ on him.

“It's too long,” Makoto murmurs, fingers still examining him, tracing some invisible path over him.

Rin shivers and tries his best to keep his hips from chasing that same path. “Wh-what?”

“Your hair here. There's not a lot but it's long.” Makoto's fingers cross over the bump of Rin's pubic bone. “You don't shave here?”

Self-conscious, Rin turns his cheek into the pillow. “I used to,” he mumbles and doesn't bother beyond that. It'd be pointless to sit there and explain the constant itching and razor burns and ingrowns and _ugh_. Figuring since his legskins and jammers always cover him there, there's no need to trim the hedges, so to speak.

“To get the best results, I'm going to have to cut it down some. Is that okay?” Makoto moves to the drawer beyond Rin's already limited field of view, and Rin's glad for the chance to breathe (somewhat) normally again.

“Sure. Do whatever you have to do,” he says, his voice cracking.

He's expecting Makoto to return with a pair of shiny shears, maybe even a simple straight razor—something, anything sharp and metal to scare off his arousal.

He doesn't expect to hear a soft buzz.

There's nothing outwardly erotic about barber clippers. Wait, no. _There shouldn’t_ be anything outwardly erotic about them. Yet the vibrations they make against his pelvis come close. Very rapidly, very gently.

And in conjunction with Makoto's large hand wrapping around the base of his cock and moving it from side to side as he works...

Fuck. Rin fights back the urge to kick his heels into the bed.

The trimming doesn't last for very long. Not that it matters anymore—it's all but set in stone that his erection isn't going anywhere anytime soon.

“Sorry,” Rin manages to say in between gulps of air.

Blinking, Makoto replaces the clippers and reaches for the trusty vat of talcum powder. “About what?” Silence is his answer. “Oh. You mean...that? Don't worry about it.”

 _Don't worry about it_ , he says. Right.

“It happens,” he adds, encouragingly, and Rin almost believes him. “It actually helps. Makes the skin tight.”

Figuring out how in the world an erection is supposed to help at a time like this is beyond Rin. Maybe Makoto is trying to placate him, lessen the gathering humiliation somehow. Only, he ends up doing the exact opposite when he sprinkles the powder over him and rubs it in.

And Rin finds himself trying to think of _anything_ but the way those big and steely fingers feel on him. The way he wants more than one of them—he doesn't care which one—to creep down beneath his sac and...

He's granted the tiniest bit of relief when he hears Makoto swirling the wooden spatula in the pot of wax. Not quite what Rin's hoping for, because he knows what's coming next, but at this point, he'll take any sort of reprieve he can get.

The wax is hot. Hotter than it's ever been on his arms and legs, and he's not sure if it's because he's supposed to be particularly sensitive down there or if Makoto's up to something—he's meticulous and very careful, and would sooner burn himself than someone else, so it's hard to tell. All Rin knows is that yes, it's hot (not scalding), and yes, it feels _amazing_.

At the same time, Makoto's hand squeezes just _so_ around his cock once more as he moves him to spread more of the wax around it and Rin's back nearly arches right off the bed.

“Easy there. I haven't even started.”

Rin bites his lower lip till he tastes copper and shakes his head. “N-No. It's—don't worry, just...wasn't expecting it. You don't have to rush it,” he says, praying he doesn't sound too hopeful. “You can go slow.”

There's a familiar press of thin fabric, and a push of fingers, and the preparatory little tug on the end of the strip.

“Ready?”

Rin nods, expecting agony on the count of three, then Makoto rips the strip off.

Everything stops. The gasp dies in his throat and he's left staring blankly into Makoto's face, feeling his cock twitch helplessly as precum starts pearling at the tip.

There's no agony. Just bliss. Sweet and short-lived.

It's ages before anyone dares to speak and, of course, it's Makoto that says something first, pleasant as ever. “Not bad, right?”

Unable to form the right words just yet, Rin shakes his head.

Makoto moves to closer to the foot of the table, his body all but looming predatorily over Rin's, the heat of it covering him like a blanket. Subconsciously, Rin lets his legs go slack and fall further apart, though he wishes he can lift them, maybe wrap them around that narrow waist.

“Rin,” his name on Makoto's voice is soft around a smooth chuckle. It's _supposed_ to be calm and soothing, like those creams and oils stacked on the shelves, Rin thinks. Instead, it's just stirring him all on its own. “Do you want me to keep going?”

Fuck yes. “Please...”

Makoto nudges him with his thigh. “Hold this, please,” he whispers as he releases his hold on Rin's straining erection, leaving it heavy against the rapid rise and fall of Rin's stomach.

Like his cock is some fucking accessory in the way.

The worst part is, Rin can't even get the least bit upset about it, because it feels too good in his palm.

“Sorry,” Makoto titters, blowing softly onto the wax he's gathered up on the spatula, “I need to use both hands. Otherwise...”

Rin quickly averts his gaze, face burning as hot as the wax Makoto spreads on the underside of his cock and his balls, and tries not to moan out loud when Makoto carefully presses the muslin strip onto it. He flinches, teeth bared, when the strip comes off.

As if on cue, Makoto's head snaps up. Right from in between Rin's legs. God damn it, he doesn't make it easy. “Oh, did I hurt you?”

Rin's thankful frowning and grumbling come so easily to him. “The hell you rip it off so fast for?”

It felt amazing.

“Sorry, I didn't want it to harden.”

“Kind of late for that now, isn't it?”

There's a funny look on Makoto's face and as close as he is, Rin can note the dust of freckles on his cheeks when he blushes. “I—um, I was talking about the wax...”

Fuck. Rin bristles. “Whatever. Just...keep going.”

 _Please_ .

And Makoto does, effortless and quick, meekly guiding Rin— _lift your knee, lift the other one, now spread them both, please_ —as he works around him, the wax that much hotter, the rips that much harder (and the instant rush of cool air and sweet relief that much stronger), until he leans back and wipes his brow, his own face flushed and gleaming.

“Get on all fours, Rin.”

Underneath Rin's chest, his heart's crashing against his ribcage like waves against a cliff. “Wh-what?”

“I need to get the hair...back there.”

Rin complies, shaky limbs shifting gracelessly on the bed as he gets onto his hands and knees. The head of his cock brushes against the sheet beneath him, sending a jolt through his body and forcing his back to instinctively arch. The motion also pushes hips out and upward, inadvertently giving Makoto more than enough of a view and more space to work with.

Rin presses his face into the sanctuary of the pillow and tries to gulp down his shame in the hopes that his body will stop responding to everything so damn easily.

More of his precum beads out. Some of it even drips out onto the table. Unfortunately, Makoto sees it this time, and without saying a word, he swipes what he can off the sheet and off Rin's cock with a tissue.

Rin just wants to die.

There's barely any hair for anyone to work with back there, Makoto says, partly out of a need to draw attention away from Rin's arousal, and partly because it's true. Even if it's been a while since he's shaved, Rin's just not as hirsute as maybe he ought to be.

Waxing there doesn't hurt anywhere near as much as Rin always imagined it would; it doesn't feel as good, either. Spreading his cheeks apart on Makoto's command, however brief, remains concurrently the best and worst part of that particular experience.

That is, until Makoto's done, and that large hand of his, still within those latex gloves, lingers on Rin's ass. Stroking his fingers lazily along Rin's taint and skimming around his asshole, where the skin is raw and pink, hypersensitive and vulnerable. Eager for attention, but ultimately ignored, despite the moments where the rubbing came too close and Rin's lips parted and he whined in unfulfilled anticipation.

Makoto's teasing him. There's just no other explanation.

And Rin's left to drift out on his own and decide if he should respond in kind or stop this altogether.

He bites down hard onto a knuckle and wonders, faintly, if he screams, would anyone out in the salon hear him.

Would he even care if they did.

Before he can wiggle his hips backward and test this theory, Makoto lifts his hand and he moves away, going for a bottle of something on the counter behind him, leaving Rin bereft yet again.

It's almost painful how swollen he's become, to the point where he's thinking of just rubbing up and down against the surface of the chair and letting friction and sordid thoughts take him over that edge of reason Makoto seems keen on strictly leading him to.

Rin abandons the idea only because Makoto instructs him to roll over. He applies some gel—not the oil from before—over him. It's just shy of an actual handjob, except he avoids touching Rin's cock for anything longer than a second at a time, working instead on coating the freshly-waxed skin with the cool gel and nothing more.

Now Rin knows why he calls this the Torture Room.

Makoto cleans the area, his gloves are disposed, and Rin, somehow, has managed to pull his pants back on, even with an erection that's maybe about only a third of the way gone. He's thankful for whatever made him decide to wear something loose and without a zipper.

“That wasn't so bad, was it?” Makoto asks.

Rin's got a few adjectives in mind—weird, hot, frustrating as fuck—but, no, _bad_ isn't one of them.

He shrugs. “Not really, no,” he manages, the huskiness in his voice sounding foreign to him.

Makoto doesn't bring out the big planner this time. “Okay, so, some aftercare,” he folds his hands out in front of him, plainly, “it's like before—don't swim or exfoliate, or take a hot bath for forty-eight hours.”

Rin didn't need to worry about any of that. It'll be ice-cold showers for the next month, at this rate.

“And no sex for about eight hours. I usually recommend twenty-four hours but...”

Somehow, it's _more_ embarrassing without Makoto looking directly at Rin's crotch.

“Right,” Rin says, pulling down hard on his baseball cap as he heads to the door.

Makoto stops him just as his fingers brush the knob with only his voice. “Did you want me to schedule you for another wax?”

“Sure, whatever,” Rin mumbles. He's out the door before he can even give a date or time.

 

\--

 

Eight hours later, there's a knock at Rin's apartment door.

It shouldn't come as a surprise. Gou and Chigusa are chatty and evil and, really, it was only a matter of time.

Yet there he is, on the other side of the door. Makoto Tachibana. Looking as innocent as ever and holding a plastic bag. “Good evening,” he offers, brightly.

And he has the fucking nerve to wear glasses.

Rin's a lot of things, but a fool isn't one of them. Maybe. Those glasses are nice... Narrowing his eyes, he folds his arms, leans against the door frame. “I didn't leave anything at the salon, did I?” Except maybe his balls and his pride.

“No, you did not,” Makoto says, meekly bowing his head. “Can I come in?”

Rin lets him in because why the fuck not. Makoto's only given him the worst case of blue balls this side of Japan. What's a little more salt in the wound?

“You're probably wondering why I'm here,” Makoto sighs, once his shoes are neatly stowed in the genkan and he's given Rin his jacket to hang up.

“The thought did cross my mind.”

“Um, well... It's about earlier today...”

 _Really_ . Rin rolls his eyes, yet spares him the snark, content with just stewing quietly for now.

Makoto rubs at the nape of his neck. “I—yeah, I'm not good at this, so,” he digs into the bag he's brought with him and pulls out a black jar, offering it and the bag up to Rin. “Here.”

Rin blinks at the jar, uncaps it. And frowns. “A candle?”

Makoto wrings his hands and bows his head, hiding his face from Rin's view. “A soy candle, to be precise. But, yeah,” he nods awkwardly, “it's safer than normal candles, and it melts at a lower temperature and cleans easily and—what?”

“You brought me a candle?”

“It's—um, it's not for you...”

Rin sneers, “The hell am I supposed to do with this? Just melt it?” The urge to chuck the candle across the room crosses Rin's mind but he wisely ignores it in favor of watching Makoto look up sharply, his eyes rounded and dark with desire and—

_It's not for you._

Rin stops and looks between Makoto and the candle, his own eyes wide with shock. “...holy shit. Are you for fuckin' real?”

Makoto can only bite his lip and nod once.

A sharp grin spreads over Rin's mouth as he reaches into the bag and draws out a box of matches. “Meet me in the bedroom. And leave your glasses on.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for everything: for the title, for the length, the subject matter, the non-smut, and just everything. *flies away into the sun*


End file.
